


Pas de deux

by Telcontarian



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Appropriate Use of Semicolons, Ballerina Sarah, Ballet, Ballet Master Jareth, Consenting Adults, Cunnilingus, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Enthusiastic cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inappropriate Use of the Barre, No Underage Sex, Protected Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Teacher-Student Relationship, Your Author is Thirsty, here there be fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telcontarian/pseuds/Telcontarian
Summary: It was strangely intimate she mused, her soul curiously bared and vulnerable as she performed for the prestigious Ballet Master in the confines of an enclosed room.  Master Llewelyn leaned forward in his seat, hands hanging loosely between parted legs, his sharp eyes following her every movement and missing nothing as Sarah danced for him.
Relationships: Jareth & Sarah Williams, Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 29
Kudos: 49





	1. Entrée

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, a massive thank you to my online dysfunctional family for their unwavering support. To my legendary goddess of a Beta [bowie_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowie_queen/pseuds/bowie_queen): thank you for catching every spelling and grammatical error and entrusting me with your precious semicolons; to [ViciouslyWitty:](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViciouslyWitty/pseuds/ViciouslyWitty) thank you for reading over all the dance scenes and helping me with the tricky ballet terms. And last but not least: a big thank you to [BustedBrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BustedBrain) who just wanted Jareth to fuck Sarah up against the barre.
> 
> For LFFL: the group that held our little family together when our world shattered around us. In you, I found my online family and my safe space, even as we mourned the loss of one of our own, much-loved Scribes. I have never been more thankful for the love and support that we provided to each other in a difficult time while we held each other through our tears.
> 
> To my readers: hold your loved ones close, for you never know when you might say goodbye for the final time.
> 
> And last but not least: thank you to [tmwillson3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmwillson3/pseuds/tmwillson3) and the amazing authors on the Reylo writing groups on Discord who made it possible for this girl to write over 20k words in a month.
> 
> I will be adding links to YouTube videos and ballet articles in the end notes to help my readers visualise the scene.
> 
> Please note that this story has already been completed, and a new chapter will be posted every Sunday.

Sarah shivered against the biting chill of the frosty, winter morning, and clutched her coat tightly around herself as she hurried down the deserted street. The gentle click of her heels seemed unnaturally loud and somewhat ominous to her ears but today of all days, Sarah was running horribly late, and she could not afford to spare another thought for the stillness of London. She quickened her pace, and she winced as the pain in her ankle gave a particularly vicious thrum, pulsing in time with the frantic pounding of her heart.

She frowned as she came to a halt in front of weathered steps leading up to a somewhat shabby exterior that seemed woefully out of place on the corner of Portobello Road. Sarah took a moment to catch her breath; hunched over slightly in an attempt to ease the ache between her ribs as her fingers closed around the well-thumbed business card nestled in her coat pocket.

_Llewelyn School of Ballet._

Sarah hesitated; the worn card burning a hot brand in the palm of her hand as she turned it over and over again with restless fingers. She sighed before squaring her shoulders and taking the steps two at a time – grunting softly as she pulled open the heavy timber of the door – hoping that she was not about to make a terrible mistake. After all, what did she really have left to lose?

Sarah snorted inelegantly.

Everything.

Much to Sarah’s surprise, the long, narrow hallway was a stark contrast to the cold and uninviting interior that she had come to expect. It was clean and warm; the walls painted a soft, buttery yellow and decorated with ornate, gilded frames containing tasteful portraits of ballerinas in the five basic positions, each dancer possessing far more poise and grace than Sarah could ever dream of. She ducked her head as she passed; cupping her hands together and blowing hot air into her skin, coaxing warmth back into her frozen fingers before knocking loudly on the studio door. There was no answer, however, and Sarah chewed absent-mindedly on her fingernail – a nervous habit that her mother had tried everything to break. The memory of the now world-famous Linda Williams berating a six-year-old Sarah into believing that no one would ever pursue a ballerina who did not strive to be perfect in all aspects of her life still stung fifteen years later.

When Sarah had all but given up, she swore under her breath, turning away and mentally preparing herself for the long, cold walk back to her little studio apartment. Sarah could only hope that her shitty landlord had finally sent an engineer to fix the heating that had refused to work for several weeks now, and she had found out the hard way that London winters could be treacherous. The studio door swung open to reveal a tall, lithe man regarding her coolly; his blue eyes narrowed under stylishly tousled hair that kissed sharp cheekbones. He wore a dark blue, cashmere sweater that Sarah was almost certain had to cost more than her monthly rent and dark denims that moulded to the hard, sculpted muscle of his thighs. Surely those had to be painted on, Sarah mused, fighting back a blush as Master Llewelyn quirked an eyebrow at her. His head tilted owlishly as his own gaze swept over her form.

Jareth Llewelyn was a world champion Ballet Master, having affiliated himself with prestigious ballet schools in France, Italy and finally New York before retiring from professional ballet at the age of thirty. Sarah could only thank her lucky stars that Master Llewelyn had chosen to lay down roots in London and open his own ballet school. She cleared her throat and extended her hand, “Master Llewelyn, I–“

“You’re late.”

“I’m really sorry, I’m having some trouble with–“

“I do not tolerate poor timekeeping, Miss Williams,” he interrupted once more, glancing briefly at the proffered hand, and he turned away from Sarah without another word.

Sarah frowned after him; her hand falling limply to her side as she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from making a snappy retort. While Master Llewelyn was renowned for his occasionally cold and often aloof behaviour, Sarah only hoped that she would be able to hold her tongue long enough until the Ballet Master deemed her performance worthy of her next audition for the Royal Ballet. Sarah bit her lip, her fists clenched at her side and her fingernails biting into the delicate palms of her hands.

However long that may be.

Just as she was trying to figure out whether or not to follow him into the studio, Master Llewelyn glanced over his shoulder, frowning when he realised that Sarah was still standing motionless inside the doorway. “I do not like to be kept waiting.”

Sarah gritted her teeth, taking a deep, calming breath as she followed Master Llewelyn into the studio, the tap of her shoes against the hardwood floor both familiar and comforting and just enough to soothe her bruised pride. She brushed past him in the doorway, removing her coat, duffle bag and boots and placed them gently in the far corner. Sarah lowered herself to the floor; unaware of Master Llewelyn’s amused smile that tugged gently at the corner of his mouth as she rummaged in her bag. She hooked her fingers around her expensive ballet shoes, well broken in through the vicious beating that they had religiously received against the polished, hardwood flooring of the Royal Opera House. Sarah wrapped her toes carefully before slipping her ballet shoes onto her feet and winding the ribbons tightly to support her ankle. She winced as her fingers brushed against the puckered scar that ran parallel with her leg, almost cleaving her delicate ankle in two.

As Sarah reached up to wrap her fingers around the barre to pull herself to her feet, she looked up, startled, as Master Llewelyn cleared his throat before extending his hand to her. Her brow furrowed in confusion, caught unaware by the Ballet Master’s silent approach and she hesitated only briefly before she graciously accepted his proffered hand. Master Llewelyn’s fingers curled almost reverently around her own; engulfing her hand within his. Sarah swore that his thumb brushed gently against the delicate bones of her wrist as he tugged her effortlessly from the ground, before dropping her hand and taking a respectful step back. She glanced briefly at the mirror over Master Llewelyn’s shoulder, lips parted in a wordless gasp as for the first time in over a year, Sarah finally saw the reflection of a ballerina gazing back at her.

“To ascertain whether or not I can help you, I must first assess your skill. Do you have a piece prepared, Miss Williams?”

“I do.” Sarah pulled her oversized sweater over her head, leaving her clad only in a loose-fitting, emerald green vest and black leggings. Her chilled fingers fumbled with her phone, scrolling through her music playlist while out of the corner of her eye, she was just aware of Master Llewelyn unfolding a chair tucked neatly against the wall running parallel with the barre. He placed the chair gently down, allowing Sarah ample room to perform her routine before taking his seat, booted foot resting on bended knee, arms folded neatly across his chest as he waited patiently for Sarah to finish her preparations.

Sarah set her phone on top of her duffle bag, taking a deep breath as the familiar strains of _The Dying Swan_ began to weave through the quiet studio with its haunting melody. She took a moment to find her centre, composing herself and began to dance, pouring all of her heartache and longing for the man who would never be hers into her performance. She flowed easily through Odette’s solo piece, her movements demure and graceful and as effortless as breathing. She concentrated on the _pas de bourrée suivi_ , the gliding motion of her arms heavy with pain, mimicking the swan’s feeble attempts to fly away as death neared. It was strangely intimate she mused, her soul curiously bared and vulnerable as she performed for the prestigious Ballet Master in the confines of an enclosed room. Sarah's _port de bras_ were flawless, her spine curved in a graceful _cambré,_ and she gritted her teeth at the bright flare of pain that sang through her ankle as she pivoted. Master Llewelyn leaned forward in his seat, hands hanging loosely between parted legs, his sharp eyes following her every movement and missing nothing as Sarah danced for him. She allowed the pain to sweep ghostly fingers over the contours of her face as she extended her right leg in front of her, a subtle quiver running through her limbs when Odile began to succumb to her grief. Sarah sank to the floor, her leg stretched out behind her and her back arched gracefully as she struggled and failed to rise once more.

“Stop, that is enough.”

Sarah picked herself up off of the floor, breath coming in short gasps as her ankle began to throb in earnest. Turning away from Master Llewelyn with as much grace as she could muster, Sarah snatched up her phone to cut the music before rummaging quickly in her bag to extract a threadbare towel and mop the beads of sweat that peppered her face and neck. Although she had been fully expecting his movements, Sarah tensed at the light scrape of the chair against the hardwood floor and her skin prickled with goose flesh as Master Llewelyn approached.

“ _En pointe_ , Miss Williams.”

Sarah swallowed thickly around the well of emotion that seemed to have lodged deep within her throat as she followed the Ballet Master’s command without question. She could do nothing to quell the slight tremor that shuddered through her legs as her ankle vehemently protested bearing her weight, teeth biting into the flesh of her bottom lip to muffle the soft whimper of pain as the deep, throbbing ache ricocheted through her body. She was unable to prevent her pained gasp as Master Llewelyn knelt behind her, his fingers gently probing the scar that marred her foot before taking a step back and allowing her to relax.

Sarah winced as she set her foot down gingerly, fingernails biting into the delicate skin of her palms to prevent herself from crying out as she hobbled over to the vacant chair, molten fire lancing through her ankle with every step. She was not aware of Master Llewelyn having left her side until he returned with an ice pack, startling Sarah as he kneeled gracefully before her and began to unlace the delicate ribbons of her ballet slippers. She hissed at the cold press of the ice pack against her skin, Master Llewelyn’s large hands achingly gentle as they cradled her foot. “How did you injure your ankle?”

Sarah scowled down at her abused flesh, grateful when the pain in her ankle eventually began to fade to a dull ache. “The Royal Ballet decided on The Nutcracker for the Christmas performance last year. My ankle was already weakened from previous injuries and I did not follow my doctor’s advice to rest and rehabilitate before dancing again.” Sarah paused, fingers plucking at a hole in her vest and missing the briefest glimmer of sympathy that flashed through Master Llewelyn’s eyes. “I wanted the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy so badly; myself and at least five other principal dancers. I pushed myself, knowing that I was nowhere near ready to perform yet, but I managed to convince myself that if I won the part, I would have plenty of time to recover while waiting for rehearsals to begin. Halfway through my audition, I misjudged my landing and fractured my ankle. I missed the entire season because I had to have surgery.”

“A fractured ankle has ended the career of many promising ballerinas, Miss Williams.”

“I’m well aware,” replied Sarah coolly, quiet anger simmering behind her emerald eyes. Master Llewelyn scowled at her obstinance, removing the ice pack from her ankle and Sarah winced as he began to bind her ankle tightly. He rose gracefully to his feet and extended a hand to her once more. “Thanks,” she muttered, gingerly testing her weight on her injured foot and relieved when her ankle did not buckle from underneath her. “About your fee–“

“Your mother owes me a favour.”

Her water bottle fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter and Sarah cursed under her breath as she bent to retrieve it. “You– you knew my mother?”

“We worked together for a time,” he replied smoothly, and it may have been Sarah’s imagination, but she was certain that her sharp gaze did not miss the minute clench of Master Llewelyn’s jaw, nor the way his own gaze turned hard and flinty before he finally broke off eye contact altogether.

Sarah tugged on her sweater, coat and boots; her eyes fixed on Master Llewelyn as he crossed to the large, mahogany desk tucked neatly into the corner beside the studio door, almost hidden beneath a mountain of paperwork. He rummaged in the desk drawer for a moment, extracting a sheaf of paper and an elegant fountain pen, head bowed over his work as he began to write. He completed his task with a flourish of his pen, glancing up as Sarah approached the desk before sliding the note to her. “The contact details for a private clinic in Mayfair. You show great potential, Miss Williams, but your ankle requires proper rehabilitation. Contact the clinic at your earliest convenience and schedule bi-weekly appointments. I will call ahead and have your medical bills added to my account.”

“Master Llewelyn, I can’t possibly–“

“Jareth.”

“Excuse me?”

The faint echo of a wry smile played at the corners of Master Llewelyn’s mouth. “You may call me Jareth, Miss Williams. Only the children call me Master Llewelyn. If you are to study under my instruction, I will ensure that your medical needs are being met. It is non-negotiable,” he added firmly, eyes narrowed in a sharp rebuke as Sarah opened her mouth to retort before thinking better of it.

“Only if you call me Sarah,” she replied reluctantly.

Jareth nodded his approval. “We will arrange your schedule around your treatments. You have my telephone number, I presume?”

Sarah patted her coat pocket. “Right here.” 

Jareth nodded, brushing gently past Sarah to open the studio door and gestured for her to precede him. “Until next time.”

* * *

Much to her chagrin, Sarah soon realised that working under the tutelage of Master Llewelyn was more difficult than she had originally anticipated. In accordance with his wishes, Sarah had been receiving rehabilitation on her ankle for several weeks now and although there had been some improvement, the therapist had warned Sarah that unless she kept up with the prescribed exercises, she risked reawakening her ankle injury once more.

Bleary-eyed and clutching a much-needed cup of coffee, Sarah would stumble into Master Llewelyn - Jareth’s - ballet studio a little after eight o’clock in the morning to spend the next few hours performing under the Ballet Master’s strict instruction. He was observant, critical to a fault and apparently missed very little as he called Sarah to a stop once more.

Breathing heavily, Sarah brought her foot gingerly back to the floor before retrieving her towel to mop at the beads of perspiration that gathered at her forehead. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jareth approach, head tilted slightly to the side and finger curled against the plump swell of his upper lip as he regarded his student thoughtfully. “Tell me, Miss Williams,” he said quietly, and Sarah winced, knowing that he reverted only to addressing her so formally when he was displeased at her lack of progress. “Are you still having some trouble following my recommendations during your piece?”

Despite herself, Sarah felt the heat rising to her face even as she clenched her fists at her side, fingernails biting into the soft flesh of her hands to prevent herself from opening her mouth in a snarky retort. “No, Master Llewelyn,” she replied shortly, and Sarah almost prided herself in her apparent self-control had Jareth’s eyes not narrowed at the undercurrents of sarcasm that he must have detected in her tone.

“You are still too tense in your movements, Sarah,” he continued, holding up his hands as he took another step forward into her personal space. “May I?”

At her terse nod, Master Llewelyn motioned for Sarah to restart her routine, occasionally bidding her to stop and hold her movement, his eyes fixed firmly on hers as his hands manoeuvred her body into the desired pose before stepping back and asking her to start once more from the beginning.

Whenever Jareth’s hands brushed over her bare skin, Sarah felt her breath hitch in her throat, her lips parting in wordless surprise as small sparks of electricity danced over her flesh at the points of contact. Sarah swallowed around the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat, brow furrowed in confusion as she willed herself not to react, not to draw attention to her body’s curious reaction to Jareth’s touch. If Master Llewelyn appeared to be similarly fazed, he managed to hide his emotions behind a professional façade, and his face betrayed no sign of having been affected by their physical contact.

Finally, Sarah was able to complete her _arabesque_ to Jareth’s satisfaction; the nod of approval and the faint—so faint that she almost missed it—curve of his lips the only indication that he was pleased by his student’s progress. Pushing the sweat-slicked strands of hair away from her face, Sarah nodded her thanks when Master Llewelyn passed over her water bottle, the minute brush of their fingers eliciting the same curious static charged pulse that seemed to exist between the pair at each physical touch. Sarah gasped as she pulled long draughts of the precious liquid past her parched lips, unaware of the minute clench of Jareth’s jaw as his eyes traced the droplets of water that escaped from her mouth to tumble down her chin and onto her chest before slipping under the thin vest that she had worn under her sweater to ward off the last reaches of the winter’s chill.

Jareth cleared his throat before finally managing to avert his eyes when Sarah began to collect her belongings. “Your routine shows great promise, Sarah,” he said gently as he opened the studio door. “There was a vast improvement in your performance today; for our next session, if you could continue to work on the movements that we have been discussing. Has the role of Siegfried already been assigned?”

“Yes, Peter, we started rehearsing together last week. We are due to begin work on Odette and Odile’s _pas de deux_ in tomorrow’s class.”

“How are you progressing with the character of Odile?”

Sarah sighed heavily and chewed on her bottom lip as she considered Jareth’s question. “She is seductive and confident and destructive and everything that Odette is not. Odile’s choreography is vastly different from Odette’s; more rigid; wilder. Whereas Odette initially shies away from Siegfried’s advances, Odile does not hesitate to take what she wants.”

Jareth hummed in agreement. “The dual role of Odette and Odile is often regarded as one of the most challenging performances in ballet. Odette is vulnerable and pure; she is fluid and ethereal with delicate carriage and rippling swan arms. Odile is cunning; her steely technique glitters with brashness and danger. The technical prowess and dramatic artistry necessary to portray both roles flawlessly is perhaps a principal ballerina’s greatest achievement in her career. We can study past performances of Swan Lake to help you with Odile’s characterisation and her movements.”

Sarah nodded her agreement, retrieving her coat as Jareth held the door open for his student and gestured for her to precede him. “After you, Sarah. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Sarah hesitated, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of her coat as she avoided Jareth’s eyes. “Actually, I walked here, but I was planning on taking the Underground back to my apartment.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” began Jareth, his expression thunderous as he folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a penetrating stare, “That you have been walking to the studio five days a week for almost two months with a chronic ankle injury?”

“It’s fine,” she ground out from between clenched teeth. “The therapist agreed that regular exercise would prevent my ankle from seizing up. Besides, Shepherd’s Bush isn’t that far away –“

“A half-hour walk unless I am mistaken.”

Jareth raised an eyebrow at her expression and Sarah knew that a petulant pout was beginning to tug at the corners of her lips. “Fine, I’ll start taking the Underground to and from classes,” she snapped.

Jareth frowned, turning away briefly to retrieve his own coat from the back of the chair. “I would rather my students did not ride that disease-ridden death trap. I’ll drive you home.”

Sarah opened her mouth to retort but was silenced with a pointed look from Master Llewelyn that clearly left no room for arguing. “No buts, Sarah-mine,” he said gently, a small chuckle escaping past his lips as he realised that Sarah was still clearly hesitant about accepting his offer. “I promise that I don’t bite.”


	2. Adagio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely blown away by all the kudos and comments that I received on the first chapter. Thank you so much all of you. Whenever I see a notification in my email inbox that a comment has been left, I get a huge goofy grin on my face.
> 
> I hope that you all enjoy Chapter Two: we learn a little about Jareth and Sarah's backstories, as well as a little bit of fluff between the pair. Chapter Three will be posted next Sunday.

Unused to being in such close confines with Master Llewelyn, Sarah fidgeted restlessly in her seat as Jareth wove expertly through the London traffic. She was unable to take her eyes off of his elegant fingers manoeuvring the gear stick, quickly shutting down that irritating little voice inside her head that daydreamed about the other things that those clever fingers could do. She glanced up at Master Llewelyn; a crimson stain spreading rapidly across her cheeks when she realised that he had been watching her. She turned her face away quickly to look out of the window, missing the ghost of a smile that danced over his lips.

“How are you enjoying living in London, Sarah?” Jareth asked quietly as he turned his attention back to the peak time traffic, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel in frustration when the surrounding traffic ground to a complete halt.

“It’s… Different,” she replied. “Busier. I grew up in Upper Nyack where everyone knew each other, and no one really left. Coming to London was such a culture shock: everyone is always in such a hurry; no one stops to talk, and the first time I had to ride the Underground I was downright terrified. It’s getting a little easier after ten years.”

“How did you get into ballet? Your mother?”

Sarah scowled at the black Mercedes beside them, impatiently sounding his horn despite the gridlock. “Linda used to love bringing me to rehearsals with her, she loved showing me off and pretending that she had the perfect family. As soon I was old enough, she bought me my first pair of ballet slippers and enrolled me in classes. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter, I just wanted to follow in Linda’s footsteps and make her proud of me.”

“You don’t call Linda your mother?”

“No,” Sarah snorted. “She left my father for another man when I was six-years-old. She travelled all over the world with Jeremy and was always too busy to call. She was too focused on her career, and I think that she tried to forget that she even had a daughter. Eventually, her relationship ran its course and she reached out, wanting to reconnect. At this point, I had not seen Linda in almost three years, and I was desperate to have a mother in my life again. My father remarried and they had my brother Toby, but I always resented Karen for trying to fill my mother’s shoes.”

Sarah paused, glancing briefly over at Jareth who looked back at her with sympathetic eyes. “She convinced me to move to London when I was sixteen, promising that she would help further my career. I stayed with her while I found my feet and enrolled in the Royal Ballet School. I remember my first recital; I was so nervous, but I was thrilled that Linda was sitting in the front row, finally attending one of my performances. I was exhausted from all of the rehearsal hours that I had put in, but I finally wanted her to be proud of me. During my solo, all I remember is the smile slipping from her face and the resentment in her eyes when she watched me dance. Linda had been getting passed over for roles for a while at that point, and I think she finally realised that having a daughter who followed in her footsteps wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I was young and I had my whole career ahead of me, and Linda was slowly fading into the background, forgotten.”

Jareth swore under his breath when a driver honked angrily behind him, not realising that the traffic had started moving again and he was holding up the lane. “What happened next?”

“She packed my bags that night and told me that I was no longer welcome,” Sarah replied sadly. “That was the last time that I saw her.”

Sarah jumped slightly when Jareth reached over to cover her hand with his and squeezed reassuringly before withdrawing; his fingers brushing against her skin. “Blood isn’t always thicker than water, Sarah,” said Jareth gently, “For what it’s worth, you deserve better than Linda Williams.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a watery smile. “I wish that it had not taken me so long to realise.”

“Do you regret moving to London?”

“Yes and no. I made what I believed was the correct choice at the time to further my career, but it came at the cost of my family. I had a huge fight with my dad and stepmom when I left, and words were said that can never be taken back. I miss home; I miss my little brother. I regret that I can never see him grow up.”

“It’s never too late to make amends, Sarah. Have you tried contacting them?”

“No,” replied Sarah sadly. “I’ve picked up the phone so many times and dialled their number, but I always get cold feet and hang up when my dad or Karen answer.” She breathed a sigh of relief when her apartment building came into view, her heart sore and aching from the painful conversation and being forced to relive memories that she thought she had long buried in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind. She needed some time alone to nurse her bruised heart.

Jareth frowned as he looked up at the building in front of him, his eyes dark as flint and his jaw clenched as he glanced warily around at the less than savoury characters who lounged around outside. His eyes missed nothing as he took in the crumbling exterior, the smashed windows and the broken entry door that had been kicked in by the police, and the feeble attempt that had been made at repairing it. “Please tell me this isn’t where you live?”

“I didn’t have much choice when Linda kicked me out,” Sarah scoffed. “Have you seen the rental prices in London?”

“Are you— are you safe here?” he ground out from between clenched teeth.

“I carry pepper spray in my bag,” she replied dryly.

Jareth shot her a withering look. “I don’t care what time it is; if you ever find yourself in trouble, promise me that you’ll call.” Sarah scowled at him, opening her mouth in a retort and thinking better of it at the thunderous look on Jareth’s face. “Promise me, Sarah,” he repeated, his fingers reaching out to curl around her wrist and his eyes holding hers, searching, waiting.

Sarah huffed, snatching her arm back and turning away from him to open the car door. “Fine,” she mumbled, “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he growled, and the deep timbre of his voice coupled with the hint of dark promise caused a jolt of pleasure to pool low in her belly, and she clenched her thighs together against the sudden wetness that she could feel growing between her legs.

“I— I’ll see you tomorrow,” she replied shakily, hoping that Jareth did not pick up on the tremor in her voice. She turned to offer him a small smile and closed the car door securely behind her.

Before she could escape, Jareth rolled down the electric window and called her name. “I feel that I must renege on our previous agreement for you to take the Underground to the studio. I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Sarah scowled. “I’ve lived here for almost ten years. I’m perfectly capable of making my own way there.”

Jareth shot her a dark look that clearly indicated that the topic was not up for discussion. “Tomorrow, Sarah,” he promised as he watched her scurry up the front steps, ignoring the people gathered outside her apartment building. When she gathered the courage to twitch her curtain aside, she was surprised to see Jareth’s car still outside, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, and his lips pressed together in a hard frown. He seemed to be debating something and she watched until finally, what seemed like hours later, he started the engine and drove away.

* * *

True to his word, Jareth arrived the next morning at exactly ten o’clock, cheerfully sounding his horn. Her duffle bag thrown over her shoulder and a travel mug of coffee clutched in her hand, Sarah winced as she crept downstairs, hoping that her neighbours would not complain about her noisy visitor. Master Llewelyn leaned casually against his car dressed warmly in a navy blue peacoat and check scarf, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his charcoal-coloured denims.

“Thanks for the fanfare,” she muttered darkly, rolling her eyes when Jareth smirked and opened the car door for her, before taking his own seat behind the steering wheel.

“Good morning to you too, Sarah,” he replied, an amused tone colouring his voice. “Always a joy.” She tossed her bag into the back seat and brought her coffee to her lips to take a long draught of her hot drink, before extending the middle finger of her free hand in his direction and causing him to chuckle. “Charming.” 

The traffic was light as Master Llewelyn pulled away from the kerb, and Sarah was too preoccupied with her much-needed caffeine fix to realise that they were not headed in the direction of the studio. She frowned when she glanced out of the window, realising that they appeared to be travelling in the entirely wrong direction altogether. “Where are we going? Did you miss a turn?”

“I thought that we might have brunch before your lesson,” Jareth replied happily. “I found the most charming little bistro in Westminster; have you eaten?”

“No, I didn’t have time before I left.” Sarah tapped her fingernails against her coffee cup, her mind racing and her heart sinking, before finally gathering enough courage to ask the question that had been plaguing her thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the invitation, but is your wife okay with you going to lunch with one of your students?”

To her dismay, the corners of his lips curved upwards in a wicked smile, and his eyes glittered with mischief. “Why, Sarah, is this your way of asking if I’m single?”

“Oh, piss off,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes, and a light blush kissed her cheeks as she swatted at his arm. 

Jareth chuckled. “In response to your question: no, I am not married.”

Sarah tried to shrug off her embarrassment, even as her heart gave a traitorous thump in her breast. “As kind as your offer is, wouldn’t it be better if we spent the morning rehearsing? Auditions begin next week, and I would really like to spend more time working on Odette’s variation for the _pas de deux_.”

“You are working too hard, Sarah,” said Jareth gently, checking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic before merging onto Marble Arch. “You are going to burn yourself out or worse, injure yourself if you continue at this pace.” 

“I just want my performance to be perfect,” Sarah mumbled as she toyed with the frayed hem of her sweater.

“It will be,” Jareth replied kindly, and he reached over to give her hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he offered her a soft smile. He hummed under his breath as the faint strains of “Starman” by David Bowie echoed over the radio, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. Jareth sighed at the usual mid-morning traffic when they neared Hyde Park, at the pedestrians and cyclists weaving in and out of the cars, at the eager tourists outside Buckingham Palace as they approached Westminster. “The Queen’s not going to come out and personally greet you,” he muttered with disdain, and Sarah snorted with laughter.

Brunch, Sarah soon discovered, was not quite the quiet affair that she had been expecting. The Owl’s Nest bistro itself was nestled within The Winchester Hotel that had recently undergone a major refurbishment to preserve its original Victorian features. Two pillars stood proudly on either side of the entryway, with an overhead canopy to protect guests from inclement weather. When Jareth held the door opened for Sarah, they were welcomed into a cosy, open-plan interior with walls composed mainly of mahogany wood and a polished, hardwood floor beneath their feet. The restaurant hosted several booths strewn across the room for guests to enjoy their meals in relative privacy, and a well-stocked bar. The _maître d’_ who greeted them at the door offered to take their coats, and although he was too polite to say, Sarah bristled as his eyes swept over her body. Admittedly, her ancient sweater and leggings ensemble with one too many holes in them were not quite up to standard for a restaurant of this calibre. And she wished that she had spent more time on her hair this morning, rather than hastily sweeping it up into a messy bun. “This way please.” The _maître d’_ led Jareth and Sarah past the guests sipping their morning mimosas to a secluded corner booth, and Sarah slipped in first. Although the booth could fit six patrons comfortably, Sarah was surprised when Jareth chose instead to sit directly next to her, his thigh brushing along the length of her own. “I’ll let you get settled; your waiter shall be here shortly to take your order,” said the _maître d’_ as he passed two menus over to them, the leather cover beautifully embossed with the restaurant’s logo and the thick, crisp white pages inside printed in beautiful script. Sarah tried not to show her alarm when her eyes skimmed over the prices.

“Just water for me, thanks,” she replied quietly as she began to search for the cheapest item on the menu, mentally calculating her budget for the rest of the month and trying desperately to figure out what she could do without.

“I’ll have the same.” As the waiter left their table to place their drinks order, Jareth’s hand moved to cover her leg, causing Sarah to wince when her knee jerked in reflex and hit off of the underside of the table. “You’re worrying, Sarah.”

Sarah distracted herself by pretending to focus intently on the menu in front of her, the words blurring together as she tried desperately not to think about the heat of Jareth’s hand through the thin cotton of her leggings. His thumb brushed lightly against her inner thigh and she swallowed, resisting the urge to press her legs together to relieve the thrum of pleasure she could feel twisting in her core, resisting the urge to nudge his hand just a little further towards her centre. God, she really needed to get laid.

“I would have been fine with a McDonald’s, honestly.”

  
Jareth rolled his eyes and removed his hand from Sarah’s leg, and she released the breath that she had been unconsciously holding. “We are not going to McDonald’s, Sarah. If you are worried about money—”

“I’m not,” she insisted quickly.

“—I had no intention of asking you to split the bill. You are my guest; I invited you, and it would be bad manners to expect you to pay. My mother would have been horrified. Order whatever you like; I highly recommend their excellent mimosas.”

“Really, I don’t mind paying my share.”

“It’s not up for discussion,” he said gently but firmly, and the underlying, faint trace of steel in his voice and the shrewd look that he cast in her direction indicated that he would not accept any further protests.

“Fine,” she muttered petulantly, tearing her eyes from his to look at the menu once more. “I think I’ll order Eggs Benedict. Karen is an amazing cook; she used to make them every Sunday. I miss her chocolate chip pancakes, they’re not the same over here,” she said sadly.

“The buttermilk pancakes served here are delicious. They’re perhaps not quite as fine as the pancakes that I used to eat in New York,” Jareth admitted, “But they are certainly the closest that I have found.”

“I forgot that you used to live in New York. I almost went to school there before Linda convinced me to move to London.”

Jareth gave the waiter their order when he returned, surprising Sarah by ordering a stack of buttermilk pancakes to share. “I don’t think that I will be able to dance after this,” she grumbled good-naturedly. “Why did you leave New York?”

“I also believed that I was making the correct decision at the time; I had been living there for five years when the itch to travel struck me once more. I had not stepped foot in London for almost fifteen years at that point, and I was curious to see how much the city had changed.”

“Are you happy here?”

Jareth paused, pondering her question. “Yes and no,” he replied softly, and the repetition of her own words was not lost on Sarah. “I hold firm to the belief that everything happens for a reason, and I believe that I was supposed to return to London for a spell, but I would move back to New York in a heartbeat. Although,” he mused, his eyes gentle and flickering with an emotion that Sarah could not quite put a name to. “Living in London is not entirely without merit. I would never have met you unless I moved here.”

Sarah sucked in a breath and a gentle blush coloured her cheeks as she pondered her reply, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Thankfully, she was saved from answering and potentially making a fool of herself when their dishes arrived and she turned her attention to her plate, the delicious aroma making her stomach growl with hunger. She speared a forkful of eggs and moaned, missing the way that Jareth’s eyes drifted lower to her lips, his eyes darkening, before looking away and reaching hastily for his glass. “Oh my god, this is so much better than instant ramen.”

Jareth coughed and spluttered, almost choking on his sip of water. “I beg your pardon? Instant ramen?” he repeated, looking absolutely horrified and mildly uncomfortable.

Sarah shrugged. “You get used to it. Unfortunately, I found out the hard way that breaking your ankle and being unable to perform for a year does not exactly pay well in the ballet world. Like I said, living in London isn’t cheap. So, how did you get into ballet?” she asked, swiftly changing the conversation away from her abysmal living situation.

Jareth hummed thoughtfully. “My mother was one of the last prima ballerinas. Unfortunately, my father died when I was very young, and like you, she often brought me to rehearsals with her. I was practically raised in the dressing rooms of the Royal Opera House. I was fascinated with the world of ballet: fascinated by the raw power of the ballerina; the elaborate costumes; the quiet hush before each performance and I thrived on it. I would watch each show from the wings of the stage and try to copy the ballerinas’ movements. I would beg the ballerinas to apply make-up to my face when they were readying themselves before their performance. I think that I was around five-years-old when I told my mother that I wanted to be a ballerino when I grew up and she was kind, understanding even. Where other children often mocked me for my love of dancing, my mother nurtured my innate talent and encouraged me to follow my dreams. She put every penny that she earned into my education and never missed a show; I owe everything that I am to her. I dance to honour her memory.”

They parted ways several hours later, Sarah’s belly uncomfortably full, and she thought longingly of soaking in the tub to soothe her aching muscles and bones after a long week of gruelling rehearsals. Jareth escorted her to the front door, and he hesitated only briefly before he pressed a kiss to her cheek, his warm hand resting gently over her hip as his lips brushed against the corner of her mouth. When Sarah finally emerged from her bath an hour later, she tugged her robe tighter around her when a knock sounded at her front door. She opened it tentatively; her eyes narrowed, and her brow furrowed in confusion when she found the corridor empty, and when she glanced down to find several bags of groceries waiting on her doorstep, Sarah finally allowed herself to feel hope.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Dying Swan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJ4uowripdw)


End file.
